The Valley of the Shadow of Death.
"And shall I fear the coward fear of standing all alone
To testify of Zion's King and the glory of his throne?
My Father, O my Father, I am poor and frail and weak,
Let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak;
But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering
tongue.
And name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be
strong."--Mrs. Stuart Menteith
Many a weary hour did Carlos shorten by chanting the psalms and hymns of
the Church in a low voice for himself. At first he sang them loudly
enough for his fellow-prisoners to hear; but the commands of Benevidio,
which were accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made
him forbear. Not a few kindly deeds and words of comfort came to him
through the ministrations of the poor servant Maria Gonsalez, aided by
the gaoler's little daughter. On the whole, he was growing accustomed to
his prison life. It seemed as though it would last for ever; as though
every other kind of life lay far away from him in the dim distance.
There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count; there were
bitter hours--of passionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable
fear. But there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or
sorrow; there were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very
near, and his consolations were not small with his prisoner.
It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of
the anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even
pleasant, were occupying his mind. He had been singing the Te Deum for
himself; and thinking how sweetly the village choristers used to chant
it at Nuera; not in the time of Father Tomas, but in that of his
predecessor, a gentle old man with a special taste for music, whom he
and his brother, then little children, loved, but used to tease. He was
so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress upon one
particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all his
present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large
key grate harshly in the strong outer door of his cell.
Benevidio entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the
prisoner to put on immediately.
Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a
passing feeling of indignation. For the very form and fashion of the
garments he was thus obliged to assume (a kind of jacket without
sleeves, and long loose trowsers), meant to the Castilian noble keen
insult and degradation.
"Take off your shoes," said the alcayde. "Prisoners always come before
their reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me."
It was, then, the summons to stand before his judges. A thrilling dread
took possession of his soul. Heedless of the alcayde's presence, he
threw himself for one brief moment on his knees. Then, though his cheek
was pale, he could speak calmly. "I am ready," he said.
He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors. At
length he ventured to ask, "Whither are you leading me?"
"_Chiton!_" said Benevidio, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was
not permitted there.
At last they drew near an open door. The alcayde quickened his pace,
entered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and
motioned Carlos to go forward alone.
He did so; and found himself in the presence of his judges--the Board,
or "Table of the Inquisition." He bowed, though rather from the habit
of courtesy, than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood
silent.
Before any one addressed him, he had ample leisure for observation. The
room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there
were handsome hangings of gilt leather. At one end, the furthest from
him, stood a great crucifix, larger than life. Around the long table on
the estrada six or seven persons were seated. Of these, one alone was
covered, he who sat nearest the door by which Carlos had entered, and
facing the crucifix. He knew that this was Gonzales de Munebraga, and
the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man's life,
helped to give him boldness in his presence.
At Munebraga's right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos,
though he had never seen him before, knew, from his dress and the
position he occupied, to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining
the Triana. One or two of the subordinate members of the Board he had
met occasionally in other days, and he had then considered them very far
his own inferiors, both in education and in social position.
At length Munebraga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table.
He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his
dress to be a notary, made him lay his hand on a missal, and
administered an oath to him.
It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he
might see or hear; and he took it without hesitation. A bench at the
Inquisitor's left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired
to be seated.
A member of the Board, who bore the title of the Promoter-fiscal,
conducted the examination. After some merely formal questions, he asked
him whether he knew the cause of his present imprisonment? Carlos
answered immediately, "I do."
This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office.
They commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have
induced "their reverences" to order their arrest With a slight elevation
of the eyebrows, perhaps expressive of surprise, his examiner continued,
gently enough, "Are you then aware of having erred from the faith, and
by word or deed offended your own soul, and the consciences of good
Christians? Speak boldly, my son; for to those who acknowledge their
faults the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy."
"I have not erred, consciously, from the true faith, since I knew it."
Here the Dominican prior interposed. "You can ask for an advocate," he
said; "and as you are under twenty-five years of age, you can also claim
the assistance of a curator.[#] Furthermore, you can request a copy of
the deposition against you, in order to prepare your defence."
[#] Guardian.
"Always supposing," said Munebraga himself, "that he formally denies the
crime laid to his charge.--Do you?" he asked, turning to the prisoner.
"We understand you so to do," said the prior, looking earnestly at
Carlos. "You plead not guilty?"
Carlos rose from his seat, and advanced a step or two nearer to the
table where sat the men who held his life in their hands. Addressing
himself chiefly to the prior, he said, "I know that by taking the course
your reverence recommends to me, as I believe out of kindness, I may
defer my fate for a little while. I may beat the air, fighting in the
dark with witnesses whom you would refuse to name to me, still more to
confront with me. Or, I may make you wring out the truth from me
slowly, drop by drop. But what would that avail me? Neither for the
truth, nor yet for any falsehood I might be base enough to utter, would
you loose your hand from your prey. I prefer that straight road which
is ever the shortest way. I stand before your reverences this day a
professed Lutheran, despairing of mercy from man, but full of confidence
in the mercy of God."
A movement of surprise ran around the Board at these daring words. The
prior turned away from the prisoner with a pained, disconcerted look;
but only to meet a half-triumphant, half-reproachful glance from his
superior, Munebraga. But Munebraga was not displeased; far from it. It
did not grieve him that the prisoner, a mere youth, "was throwing
himself into the fire." That was his own concern. He was saving "their
reverences" a great deal of trouble. Thanks to his hardihood, his
folly, or his despair, a good piece of work was quickly and easily
accomplished. For it was the business of the Inquisitors first to
convict; retractations were an after consideration.
"Thou art a bold heretic, and fit for the fire," he said. "We know how
to deal with such." And he placed his hand on the bell that was to
signal the termination of the interview.
But the prior, recovering from his astonishment, once more interposed.
"My lord and your reverence, be pleased to allow me a few minutes, in
which I may set plainly before the prisoner both the wonted mercy and
lenity of the Holy Office to the repentant, and the fatal consequences
of obstinacy."
Munebraga acquiesced by a nod, then leant back carelessly in his seat;
this was not a part of the proceedings in which he felt much interest.
No one could doubt the sincerity with which the prior warned Carlos of
the doom that awaited the impenitent heretic. The horrors of the death
of fire, the deeper, darker horror of the fire that never dies, these
were the theme of his discourse. If not actually eloquent, it had at
least the earnestness of intense conviction. "But to the penitent," he
added, and the hard face softened a little, "God is ever merciful, and
his Church is merciful too."
Carlos listened in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. But when the
Dominican concluded, he looked up again, glanced first at the great
crucifix, then fixed his eyes steadily on the prior's face. "I cannot
deny my Lord," he said. "I am in your hands, and you can do with me as
you will. But God is mightier than you."
"Enough!" said Munebraga, and he rang the hand-bell. After a very short
delay, the alcayde reappeared, and led Carlos back to his cell.
As soon as he was gone, Munebraga turned to the prior. "My lord," he
said, "your wonted penetration is at fault for once. Is this the youth
whom you assured us a few months of solitary confinement would render
pliant as a reed and plastic as wax? Whereas we find him as bold a
heretic as Losada, or D'Arellano, or that imp of darkness, little
Juliano."
"Nay, my lord, I do not despair of him. Far from it. He is much less
firm than he seems. Give him time, with a due mixture of kindness and
severity, and, I trust in our Lord and St. Dominic, we will see him a
hopeful penitent."
"I am of your mind, reverend father," said the Promoter-fiscal. "It is
probable he confessed only to avoid the Question. Many of them fear it
more than death."
"You are right," answered Munebraga quickly.
The notary looked up from his papers. "Please your lordships," he said,
"I think it is the _sangre azul_ that makes him so bold. He is Alvarez
de Menaya."
"Keep to thy quires and thine ink-horn, man of law," interposed
Munebraga angrily. "Thy part is to write down what wiser men say, not
to prate thyself." It was well known that the Inquisitor, far from
boasting the _sangre azul_ himself, had not even what the Spaniards call
"good red blood" flowing in his veins; hence his irritation at the
notary's speech.
There is often a great apparent similarity in the effects of quite
opposite causes. That which results from a degree of weakness of
character may sometimes wear the aspect of transcendent courage. A
bolder man than Don Carlos Alvarez might, in his circumstances, have
made a struggle for life. He might have fought over every point as it
arose; have availed himself of every loophole for escape; have thrown
upon his persecutors the onus of proving his crime. But such a course
would not have been possible to Carlos. As a running leap is far more
easy than a standing one, so to sensitive temperaments it is easier to
rush forward to meet pain or danger than to stand still and fight it
off, knowing all the time that it must come at last.
He would have been astonished had he guessed the impression made upon
his examiners. To himself it seemed that he had confessed his Lord in
much weakness. Still, he had confessed him. And shut out as he was
from all ordinary "means of grace," the act of confession became a kind
of sacrament to him. It was a token and an evidence of Christ's
presence with him, and Christ's power working in him. He could say now,
"In the day that I called upon thee thou answeredst me and
strengthenedst me with strength in my soul." And from that hour he
seemed to live in greater nearness to Christ, and more intimate
communion with him, than he had ever done before.
It was well that he had strong consolation, for his need was great. Two
other examinations followed after a short interval; and in both of these
Munebraga took a far more active part than he had done in the first.
The Inquisitors were at that time extremely anxious to procure evidence
upon which to condemn Fray Constantino, who up to this point had
steadily resisted every effort they had made to induce him to criminate
himself. They thought it probable that Don Carlos Alvarez could assist
them if he would, especially since there had been found amongst his
papers a highly laudatory letter of recommendation from the late Canon
Magistral.
Still, his assistance was needed even more in other matters. It is
scarcely necessary to say that Munebraga, who forgot nothing, had not
forgotten the mysterious appointment made with him, but never kept, by a
cousin of the prisoner's, who was now stated to be hopelessly insane.
What did that mean? Was the story true; or were the family keeping back
evidence which might compromise one or more of its remaining members?
But Carlos was expected to resolve a yet graver question; or, at least,
one that touched him more nearly. His own arrest had been decreed in
consequence of two depositions against him. First, a member of Losada's
congregation had named him as one of the habitual attendants; then a
monk of San Isodro had fatally compromised him under the torture. The
monk's testimony was clear and explicit, and was afterwards confirmed by
others. But the first witness had deposed that two gentlemen of the
name of Menaya had been wont to attend the conventicle. Who was the
second? Hitherto this problem had baffled the Inquisitors. Don Manuel
Alvarez and his sons were noted for orthodoxy; and the only other Menaya
known to them was the prisoner's brother. But in his favour there was
every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer in the
army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary
return to Seville; where, instead of shunning, he seemed to court
observation, by throwing himself continually in the Inquisitor's way,
and soliciting audience of him.
Still, of course, his guilt was possible. But, in the absence of
anything suspicious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague
deposition alluded to was absolutely necessary, in order to warrant
proceedings against him. According to the inquisitorial laws, what they
styled "full half proof" of a crime must be obtained before ordering the
arrest of the supposed criminal.
And the key to all these perplexities had now to be wrung from the
unwilling hands of Carlos. This needed "half proof" could, and must, be
furnished by him. "He must speak out," said those stern, pitiless men,
who held him in their hands.
But here he was stronger than they. Neither arts, persuasions, threats,
nor promises, availed to unseal those pale, silent lips. Would torture
do it? He was told plainly, that unless he would answer every question
put to him freely and distinctly, he must undergo its worst horrors.
His heart throbbed wildly, then grew sick and faint. A dread far keener
than the dread of death prompted one short sharp struggle against the
inevitable. He said, "It is against your own law to torture a confessed
criminal for information concerning others. For the law presumes that a
man loves himself better than his neighbour; and, therefore, that he who
has informed against himself would more readily inform against other
heretics if he knew them."
He was right. His early studies had enabled him to quote correctly one
of the rules laid down by the highest authority for the regulation of
the inquisitorial proceedings. But what mattered rules and canons to
the members of a secret and irresponsible tribunal?
Munebraga covered his momentary embarrassment with a sneer. "That rule
was framed for delinquents of another sort," he said. "You Lutheran
heretics have the command, 'Thou shall love thy neighbour as thyself,'
so deeply rooted in your hearts, that the very flesh must needs be torn
from your bones ere you will inform against your brethren.[#] I
overrule your objection as frivolous."
[#] Words actually used by this monster.
And then a sentence, more dreaded than the terrible death-sentence
itself, received the formal sanction of the Board.
Once more alone in his cell, Carlos flung himself on his knees, and
pressing his burning brow against the cold damp stone, cried aloud in
his anguish, "Let this cup--only this--pass from me!"
His was just the nature to which the thought of physical suffering is
most appalling. Keenly sensitive in mind and body, he shrank in
unspeakable dread from what stronger characters might brave or defy.
His vivid imagination intensified every pang he felt or feared. His
mind was like a room hung round with mirrors, in which every terrible
thing, reflected a hundred times, became a hundred terrors instead of
one. What another would have endured once, he endured over and over
again in agonized anticipation.
At times the nervous horror grew absolutely insupportable. Tearfulness
and trembling took hold upon him. He felt ready to pray that God in his
great mercy would take away his life, and let the bearer of the dreaded
summons find him beyond all their malice.
One thought haunted him like a demon, whispering words of despair. It
had begun to haunt him from the hour when poor Maria Gonsalez told him
she had seen his brother. What if they dragged that loved name from his
lips! What if, in his weakness, he became Juan's betrayer! Once it had
been in his heart to betray him from selfish love; perhaps in judgment
for that sin he was now to betray him through sharp bodily anguish.
Even if his will were kept firm all through (which he scarcely dared to
hope), would not reason give way, and wild words be wrung from his lips
that would too surely ruin all!
He tried to think of his Saviour's death and passion; tried to pray for
strength and patience to drink of _his_ cup. Sometimes he prayed that
prayer with strong crying and tears; sometimes with cold mute lips, too
weary to cry any longer. If he was heard and answered, he knew it not
then.
Days of suspense wore on. They were only less dreary than the nights,
when sleep fled from his eyes, and horrible visions (which yet he knew
were less horrible than the truth) rose in quick succession before his
mind.
One evening, seated on his bench in the twilight, he fell into an uneasy
slumber. The dark dread that never left him, mingling with the sunny
gleam of old memories, wove a vivid dream of Nuera, and of that summer
morning when the first great conflict of his life found an ending in the
strong resolve, "Juan, brother! I will never wrong thee, so help me
God!"
The grating of the key in the door and the sudden flash of the lamp
aroused him. He started to his feet at the alcayde's entrance. This
time no change of dress was prescribed him. He knew his doom. He cried,
but to no human ear. From the very depths of his being the prayer
arose, "Father, save--sustain me; _I am thine_!"